


Nuclear Furnace

by R_Quarion



Series: The Catalogue of Frowns [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Astronomy, Body Positivity, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ethereal and Occult Beings In Love, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Poetic, Protective Crowley, Romantic Gestures, True Forms, Wings, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 15:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20027833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Quarion/pseuds/R_Quarion
Summary: Form shapes nature. But, sometimes, nature shapes form.Crowley and Aziraphale are no longer of Heaven nor Hell.And so, one day, they find themselves struggling to adjust to a change in their wings.Crowley finds himself trying to find a fair comparison... is there anything that can live up to the beauty of his angel?





	Nuclear Furnace

"Crowley?!"  
From the other room, the angel's voice echoed across the bookshop. Crowley looked up from the book he was gandering at. Gandering. _Not_ _reading_. Crowley didn't read. He raised an eyebrow at the general direction.  
“Yes?" He huffed, looking back to the pages of words. _The transit to and from the magazine is now stop by the sentinels. _Something-- something._ They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust. _Something-- something. He was glad to only be gandering at such drivel.  
God forbid, no-- Satan forbid, no-- _someone_ forbid that Aziraphale ever hear Crowley describe Walt Whitman as drivel. For a side he found himself sympathizing with, Crowley had to admit that humans found joy in reading and writing the strangest of things. The demon didn’t consider _all _poetry to be drivel. Only, that which he found as nonsense. Crowley did know that the words 'drivel and 'nonsense meant the same thing- he just found that it backed his feelings up further. There were a few strings of sentences of poetry that he found to be more enjoyable than that of… _magazines and sentinels._

_ Blood on his nails and on his purple feet. _

_ With hollow voice he speaks, and sick'ning breath, _

_ 'A way there is, that only way is death!…. _

_ The dead will rise no more,-the dead are dead!’  _

One would usually ask why that sort of poetry intrigued Crowley. But it was an obvious answer, really. The poems he liked were spooky. Big spooky fan- him. Much less so detailing the beauty regarding a sunset. Although Crowley had to admit that, on occasion, he did see the beauty of a million sunsets within Aziraphale’s eyes. That was if the definition of ‘on occasion' was changed to ‘every time he looked at the bastard’. He also found interest in many poems relating to death. Less so because he was a demon and it was within his contract to run souls into the ends of their days. But, instead, because he had witnessed Death right before his eyes. Wings like the void outstretched further then his own. He had also watched Death be ultimately beaten by a group of children talking along the lines of _‘stop it, I don’t like it’. ___  
“Mind coming here, my dear? I think I’ve… run into a __problem of sorts…”   
Crowley knew that Aziraphale’s list of problems were separated into two different categories.  


The first category of problems came under the term of ‘_Everyday Vexes’. _Crowley had suggested the word ‘inconveniences but Aziraphale had strongly insisted that a child who was making use of his small hands by tearing book pages was no mere issue. Nor would he describe a speeding car splashing muddy water onto his shoes as an inconvenience. There was a certainty that the closest decent crepe place being closed for ‘renovations was much more than a mere convenience-of-in. Somebody forbid if he were to catch a button on his waistcoat. The angel would deem he were ‘simply and utterly vexed’, and despite this category _definitely _being inconveniences by Crowley’s standards, he would work in a few little demonic miracles here and there to help out. After all, Crowley was tired of seeing the angel fretting over so many everyday inconven-- _everyday vexes._

The second category came under the term ‘Oh Fiddlesticks The World Might Just End’. And it consisted of, well, what the title implied. Those less common instances of having to deal with The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness. So on and so forth was considered to be within the second category. Since the skies weren’t of crimson colour nor had the sky began to rain terror down upon them, Crowley could only assume that the first category was in place. Discarding the book with a nonchalant toss (and a less nonchalant demonic miracle that made sure the pages weren’t damaged) Crowley approached the distressed angel.

On occasion the demon could pick up the faint scent of heaven in the back room which frankly disgusted him. A visit from a few beings in the past had left the scent there. Strange, Crowley had noticed, that he wasn't overwhelmed with that scent around Aziraphale. But the angel was different to most and Crowley, who was much more familiar with how the angel smelt in comparison to heaven, was very glad. Heaven was often much too ignorant to understand just exactly how some demon- amphibian hybrids sense smell. Without much detailing; it is responsible for the signs on the walls of hell. You know the ones... _do not lick._  


Crowley did always have to admire Aziraphale in the lighting of the back room. It was darker than the rest of the shop. That darkness made way for Aziraphale’s glow to strengthen and bloom. Usually Crowley took time to look over the angel with a soft sense. Hell forbid he follow his drive to slam the angel against those bookcases. The idea of not letting him make a noise to avoid getting caught in what would be described as a _somewhat intimate situation. _But no, Crowley’s eyes would be trained on the Angel’s content expression as he tidied and ordered all those paperbacks. The angel hummed along sometimes. Crowley could sit on that small sofa, watching the love of his life being perfectly content with something as human and mundane as sorting out his books. Only this time was different. Less glow, no humming, furrowed brow. _The kind of frown given when someone asks if one can cry underwater?_  
"What's the _somewhat-problem_, angel?" Crowley asked, nonchalantly turning a page in an open book lying on the desk. Probably more drivel regarding magazines and sentinels.   
"W-well…" sometimes Aziraphale had a shake to his voice. A little tremor in his beautiful tones. This tremor was certainly present and it dragged Crowley's eyes away from the book. Aziraphale held something in between the tips of his fingers. He held it lightly, as to not damage it. Crowley had to narrow his eyes and get a little closer.  


It was a feather.  


Only this feather was a strange colour. Slate grey but just as gorgeous as any other feather. The quill of it was much darker than slate but it didn't nearly reach the colour of the night. The dark shade lightened out the further the feather spanned until it were white. Random flecks of all shades dotted in between.  
"It's beautiful, dear…" Crowley cocked his head, looking at the tremble in Aziraphale's hands, "what's wrong with it…?"  
The angel opened his mouth briefly, then closed it again. Only to open it a second later once he had found enough words to string together a sentence.  
"I-it's damaged… and it's _mine_."   
Crowley's frown was back to the complexities of underwater crying.  
"Oh, but it can't be yours." Crowley waited for the angel to hand him the feather. It was the softest of all he had ever felt. The grey-scale gradient was simply divine. But it didn't match up, it couldn't be Aziraphale's. Those wings were a flawless white much like the purest of marble.  


Crowley was much too busy inspecting the feather to notice that the angel's wings had materialised beside him. It was the familiar sound of settling feathers and the coolest of breezes the wings created that awoke Crowley from his narrowed-eyed fixation. The demon nearly jumped once the wings caught his eye. Aziraphale had been right. The wings of silk which had been the colour of the clouds had faded into darker shades. Flawless white at the top, slowly delving into a hundred greys. Slate. Steel. Iron. Smoke. All tinted with bright silver streaks which became more vivid as the feather got darker. Like lighting strikes among storm clouds. Although they didn't reach black nor anything as deep as charcoal.  
"Angel…" Crowley whispered without even meaning to. Slowly he took steps around Aziraphale to get a better look, Crowley wanted to see those wings from every angle.  
"It's truly terrible isn't it?" The tremble in Aziraphale's voice brought Crowley back from his hypnotised state. The demon finished his circle and stood in front of the angel. Eyes cast down at the shadows with his hands fiddling anxiously. The unmistakable sound of a saddened sniff fueled an anger in Crowley's heart. The softest tint of red colored the eyes which refused to look at Crowley.  
"No!? _Angel_." He scoffed, a hand gesturing to the wings but not touching them. No, touching an angel's wings was something much more intimate. Crowley wouldn't without explicit permission, "they're… _gorgeous…_"  
Aziraphale's brow furrowed, the movements of his hands became more erratic.  
"I'm a disgrace to heaven! An angel who is," he gestured to himself, "soft. And- and who has discoloured wings, I'm---"  
"Hey, hey, hey---" Crowley stopped the spiral. He let his hands rest softly on Aziraphale's plush waist. Fingers tracing light circles across the skin, "this? This is beautiful. And the wings? Just as beautiful. So… a not so kind _up yours_ to upstairs. You're _not_ on their side, anymore. Be a disgrace, _with me_."   
As each word left his mouth, the closer that mouth moved to the angel's. Until, that was, there was no space between them whatsoever.  


For a creature as incredibly intelligent and downright vigilant as Aziraphale, he was also beautifully unaware of himself. The little soft noises he made when he kissed Crowley being one of those things. Each hum was music to Crowley's ears and it only made him melt into the angel's arms more. Every kiss to them was something different. Of course ethereal beings can sense much more than humans can, that's just simply biology. So the time of day and the temperature, the weather and the scenery. It was all stimuli that such beings were affected by. Crowley was a fan of the rainy days when the cool chill of the air made the angel smell of fresh flowers and morning dew. Aziraphale liked the more private settings. The lack of atom movement around them made their own movements so much more powerful in comparison. Every kiss of theirs was different in a way that Aziraphale and Crowley (unbeknownst to each other) had a mental note of. And each, without coordination nor planning, had little sketches of hearts free-floating around the dot points.  


"Wait---" Crowley whined as Aziraphale pulled himself back. Already Crowley had noted how different Aziraphale's blush looked in this specific light. Absolutely divine, undeniably to die for, featuring an insert of little hearts that he'd never admit to being there.   
"Yes?" Crowley unconsciously smiled as he felt Aziraphale shift further into his hands. It was undeniable that Crowley found Aziraphale's figure to be delightful. The angel was made of all the things he loved so dearly. Wine and cheese. Picnics in the park. A sublime night out for dinner. A perfect spot of lunch. Crowley loved not much more than having a little more of the angel to hold.  
"Well, dear, if we are on the same side then… your wings might just be the same…"  
Materializing wings was a great effort on Earth. They took up ample space and could cause a lot of panic for the locals if one was not stealthy enough. Pausing for a moment, Crowley considered the idea before bringing his wings into the present. Aziraphale often saw shadows of Crowley's wings but rarely did he see them directly. Sure enough, the colours weren't the dark void Crowley was used to. Instead of a great black expanse, the feather faded into light shade of grey. It was as if the last few feathers had seen the sun for too long, or maybe the demon had become entangled in a sort of paint debacle. Paintball guns or no paintball guns, the wings were art to marveled at.  


Crowley outstretched his wings until the tips of his furthest feathers nearly brushed the walls. The demon has been much too busy looking at the distortion in colour to even notice Aziraphale's change in expression. Demon wings were different from angel wings which was to be expected. Demon's feathers were like daggers, very sharp and much more skeletal then most. Crowley's wings weren't as razor sharp as other demon's. It was a trait he noticed developing after Aziraphale had begun taking some of his temptations. Then there was the streaks. Much like Aziraphale's but with a red tint, flecked across the great expanse.  
" _ Oh, Crowley… _ " Aziraphale's tone was lighter than clouds. Normal clouds, of course. Armageddon't clouds were much more vicious.  
"W-what?" In a brief panic, he looked to the angel. It was then that Crowley saw his expression.  
Aziraphale looked love struck. Pale lips slightly agape making way for unconscious heavy breathing. The rise and fall of his chest synced with a rhythmic beat of his heart. Crowley could _ feel _ those vibrations, Aziraphale’s heartbeats were one of his favourite things to sense in the entirety of the universe.  _ Form shapes nature _ . And so, the angel was prone to skipping a beat or two. “They’re… just…”   
“Just… what?” The pausing of syllables was a worry to Crowley but as the angel moved closer to him, he was not too sure if it were a good or a bad thing.   
“ _ Ineffable…” _ If Crowley hadn’t been captivated by that one word, he would have rolled his eyes. 

Touching the wings of another ethereal or occult being was a much more intimate exchange in contact then most would assume. So when Crowley saw Aziraphale's perfectly manicured hands reach outwards to the feathers, he had to hold his breath. Of course the angel sought confirmation and allowance by means of a nod. Crowley’s wings had always reminded him of what he _had_ been. The moment in which Azirphale gently brushed at those sharp feathers was one Crowley had never expected. It was as if the contact sent a burst of electricity through him. Not painful but _enlightening_. The demon could not help but gasp and shudder at the warmth the angel gave to those skeletal feathers.   
“A-Angel--” Crowley couldn't get a word in edgewise, not through his gritted teeth. His chest heaved a little more rapidly,  
“They’re beautiful…” The slick feeling against some of the feathers Crowley knew to be blood from Aziraphale’s palms. Demon’s wings were usually quite quick to tear through skin  
“Y--you’re hurting yourself…” Crowley mumbled as he pulled Aziraphale's hand from the feathers and up to his mouth. The wings felt an instant loneliness. Opening the angel’s palm revealed little crimson beads growing across pale flesh. Softly, Crowley kissed and swiped his forked tongue out over the small wounds, murmuring ‘_sorry_’ with every delicate kiss and treasuring the taste of him.  


Demons nor angels were bound by the laws of physics. So when Aziraphale’s wings brushed accidentally into Crowley's, they were not torn like the vessel of his skin. The contact felt much like the creation of a supermassive black hole, maybe the thunder of a supernova. Two singularities delving into one another to form one, with no weak push or pull at the time and space around it. No, it was much more than that. Galaxy-tearing. The both of them had gasped, chills and sparks and shakes running uncontrollably through them. Aziraphale grasped desperately at the demon’s waist, holding him tight enough to whiten his knuckles. Resting slender fingers on Aziraphale’s jaw, Crowley pressed their foreheads together. The feeling of entangled feathers was like a feeling that Crowley had only ever experienced on occasion. Being when he helped build the universe. Particularly, NGC 7635. A nebulae of billowing winds creating a bubble of the brightest colours among the depths of space. Although he had to admit that his own craftsmanship of astronomical phenomena was nothing compared to the angel before him now. The blue swirls of a burst star paled in comparison to the colour of Aziraphale’s eyes. The thing about nebulae were that the stars at the heart of them did have a name.  _ Nuclear Furnace.  _ It was said that without the furnace, without the heart of the nebula, it would cease to exist. Much like that of a human heart. So when Crowley truly soaked in the racking waves of crackling electricity emanating at their wings touched in what was felonious act, Crowley knew that Aziraphale was his nuclear furnace.

_ Without the angel, Crowley knew he would cease to exist. _

**Author's Note:**

> hnggggg i love them


End file.
